


The Company of the King

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Ensemble Cast, Family, Friendship, Gen, King Fili
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thorin is killed at the Battle of Azanulbizar, his young nephew Fili becomes the King Under the Mountain. As he grows into his title, he meets the Dwarves who will form his company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one to call king

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a prompt from canadiansuphero on tumblr, who wanted company genfic (within the AU described in the summary). Playing absolute hell with the timeline here, so we're just going to pretend that Smaug took the Mountain a few decades later than canon, making Dis old enough to have already had Fili and Kili by the time the War of the Dwarves and Orcs takes place. Like in the book, Thror is killed several years before.
> 
> In this first chapter, Fili is 15 years old.

“What else can we do, Dis?”

“Remain here. Build homes, fire forges, raise children. _Live_. There is nothing for us in Moria—aye, brother! I call it Moria, for Khazad-dum has long fallen, and will not be raised again until Durin himself lifts it from the darkness.”

“Perhaps he is about to. Perhaps I will see something unexpected in Kheled-zaram.”

“… Do not jest, Thorin. You are not very good at it.”

Fili’s leg was falling asleep. He shifted it and winced as pins and needles flooded through him, and then pressed his eyes to the crack in the door. His mother and his uncles were all sitting at the table, but they weren’t drinking their ales, and their abandoned plates from dinner were still resting beside them. Uncle Thorin’s hair gleamed like black obsidian in the flickering firelight, like Amad’s. Uncle Frerin was blonde, almost as bright-haired as Fili, but he was quiet and sitting almost in the shadows. He looked horribly grim, Fili thought. Uncle Frerin always wore the same gentle smile—it was gone now.

Uncle Thorin, surprisingly, did _not_ look grim. He was not cheerful, he never was, but as he leaned across the table it seemed there was a glow in his eyes that Fili had never seen before.

“How many times must we be exiles, Dis? How many generations will feel themselves uprooted and torn from their homes? Erebor _will_ be reclaimed, now or in a hundred years or a thousand. I know this as surely as I know my name, carved in my heart by the Maker. The Dwarves are destined to walk the halls of the mountain again—but until then, we cannot simply squat in the Blue Mountains and hope that we won’t starve through the winter. Now, while we are still strong, we _must_ take back Khazad-dum. The seat of Durin, Dis! We cannot allow it to fester and rot in the hands of goblins while our people starve outside its door!”

Amad was shaking her head. Fili could not see her face, but he could imagine it—her dark brows drawn tight over her eyes.

“In the hands of goblins, no. But I would allow Durin’s Bane to burn everything left of Khazad-dum, if the khazad could be spared.”

“The passing of time turns truth into story and story into legend,” Uncle Frerin interrupted.

Fili didn’t hear what they said next. His mind was suddenly filled with images of Durin’s Bane, drawn from the history books Mister Balin read, and breathed into life through his Amad’s stories. A great, monstrous black figure with curling horns and fire for its hide and a deep voice that shook the stones and screeched so high it split the sun in two. He shivered and closed his eyes. No, no, they could not go chasing Durin’s Bane. Even Uncle Thorin couldn’t kill it, he was sure. His uncle was a hero, and he could fight off a whole army of nasty goblins by himself, and probably a dragon, too—but not this.

“It is done, Dis,” Uncle Thorin said quietly.

“Nothing is done until you reach the damned pit itself.”

“Father agrees with me, as do Balin and Dwalin. Tomorrow we set out to war, to avenge Grandfather’s death—and once we have done so, we _will_ rout the creatures that have infested our halls.”

Fili drew his knees up to his chest and rested his cheek on them, closing his eyes. He needed to listen extra-carefully to hear what was said next, because Amad spoke in barely a whisper.

“I will not grudge you the former goal, Thorin, you _know_ I will not. Bring back the head of the Pale Orc on a pike if you so desire, but you must know when to _stop_. Orcs have infested the Misty Mountains for too long, and filled Moria with their spawn. No matter how doughty our armies, we cannot take back Khazad-dûm on our own.”

“Whom do you suggest we ask for aid?” Frerin said coolly. “The Elves?”

Uncle Thorin spit out something in Khuzdul that Fili had not been allowed to learn yet.

“I don’t think you will and I don’t think they would come, and thus I do not think Moria can be your ultimate goal! Blood for blood. Azog for Grandfather. That is what this war must be, if you and our kin are to survive it, and _you must survive_.” The fire wavered and Dis took in a deep, shuddering breath. Her voice became low. “Thorin, Frerin,  _please_. I cannot bear to think of what may happen if you are to go through with this. With Zhili gone, and Grandfather... if nothing else, think of my boys.”

“I have,” Uncle Thorin said in a rough, earnest voice. “Since the moment I first held Fili in my arms, I have thought of little else, and it is for them that I _must_ do this. The boys are princes of the line of Durin, and they deserve to speak of that lineage with pride. They deserve to look upon the halls of their forefathers. They deserve to _belong_ somewhere.”

Amad said nothing.

“Think of it, Dis,” Uncle Frerin urged. “Think of Kili growing up behind the Door of Narvi, and Fili gazing into Kheled-zâram. Think of them learning to craft mithril, and singing the songs of our ancestors in the halls we have so longed for!”

“And one day,” Thorin said, “They will depart for Erebor at my side, made strong by the waters of Kibil-nâla, princes of Khazad-dûm and kings of the Lonely Mountain.”

“Enough,” Amad said wearily. “Enough, nudûd.”

No one spoke for a long, long time. The fire whispered quietly and slowly began to die. Then there was the sound of a chair scraping the floor as Uncle Thorin stood.

“May I see them? Before the morn?”

“They are asleep,” Amad said, waving her hand.

“Perhaps.”

His eyes fell on the crack of the door, and Fili jumped. As quietly as possible, he scrambled away and began to run, barefooted, down the hall. Before he could open the door to the bedroom he shared with his brother, Uncle Thorin was in the hall and staring right at him, his dark blue eyes impossible to read. Fili’s chin hit his chest and he closed his eyes.

“’M sorry, uncle,” he mumbled.

“You need not be. You are young yet, Fili, but you are a prince and may someday be a king—you should know what is to be done. What decisions a king might make.” He held out a hand. “Come with me now.”

Fili took his uncle’s hand and followed him outside. They sat on the stoop and looked up at the sky. The moon was thin, like a sliver of mithril in the sky, and the stars hung like dew drops. A faint chill was in the air, but Uncle Thorin’s arm was wrapped around Fili’s shoulder, keeping him warm.

“Look, lad,” he said after a moment, pointing out into the gloom. Fili squinted, and saw dancing pinpricks of light.

“Fireflies!”

“Aye. When I was young, in Erebor, there were always fireflies that gathered outside of the gates. I wanted to go out and catch them, but each time I tried, the guards would stop me—unless my father or mother was with me, and it can be very trying for little boys to always have their parents with them. One day I asked my father why, and he said the guards were there to keep me safe. I did not understand, because outside the gates was the city of Dale, and its people were our friends—and I did not need my parents to accompany me within Erebor, so what did it matter?

“Later, I understood. It was because within the gates was my family. My father, my mother, my brother and sister and grandparents—and my aunts and uncles and many-times removed cousins. And even those who were not related to me were _my_ people. All children of the great Maker, all sons and daughters of Durin. I would never be harmed, as long as I was surrounded by my own.”

“But what about the fireflies?” Fili asked, thinking that Uncle Thorin might have forgotten. Adults did silly things like that sometimes. But Thorin looked down at him and smiled—a warm, fond smile that made Fili want to curl closer into his side, which he promptly did.

“My father told me to go down to the mines and to the store rooms. There I saw veins of gems and metals, tended to by Dwarvish miners, and vast quantities of carven jewels and harps and necklaces and rings and goblets, and everything you can imagine, crafted by Dwarvish hands. That is what we were made to do, Fili. We fight because we must, but we craft because that is Mahal’s gift to us. One day, when I was older, I went outside the gates by myself and trapped fireflies in my hand, and they were beautiful—but they were nothing, _nothing_ compared to the things I had seen my people create.”

“And that is why you are going to Khazad-dum?” Fili said in a small voice. Uncle Thorin squeezed him tighter.

“Yes. And that is why, someday, you and I shall go to Erebor.”

“I promise I will, uncle,” he swore, burying his face in his uncle’s tunic. It was soft, and it smelled like how Fili imagined a father must smell—like a forge made flesh. “I’ll be brave.”

“I know you will,” Thorin said, and then he whispered the secret name that Fili had never told anyone except him, and his parents and his uncle. He was going to tell Kili, someday, when Kili was finally grown up enough to keep a secret. “Listen carefully, unday. There is a song I want you to know.”

He cleared his throat and began to sing in a low voice, and Fili closed his eyes so he could listen better.

_Far over the Misty Mountains cold_  
 _to dungeons deep and caverns old_  
 _we must away, ere break of day_  
 _to seek the pale, enchanted gold…_

He sang for a long time about Erebor, and the glorious things that had been done and made there of old, and Fili felt his heart stir. He had never seen the Lonely Mountain; he had been born on the road and raised in many different places, as the Dwarves moved from one home to another. They had been here, in the Blue Mountains, almost as long as Kili had been alive, and he had thought it a fairly nice place to live, all things considered—but now he listened, and thought of everything his uncle had always told him of, and he thought that the mountain must be something, indeed.

He wanted... it was hard to say. He wanted a true home, a proper home, that he loved as deeply as Uncle Thorin loved his. A place where his mother and his brother—and aye, all the Dwarves, because he was a son of Durin and they were all children of Mahal and they were _his_ people—could be happy and proud.

Then the night grew cold.

_The mountain smoked beneath the moon._  
 _The Dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom._  
 _They fled their hall to dying fall_  
 _beneath his feet, beneath the moon._

_Far over the Misty Mountains grim_  
 _to dungeons deep and caverns dim_  
 _we must away, ere break of day_  
 _to win our harps and gold from him._

The song faded away into the darkness, and Fili listened to his uncle’s breathing and realized that he was crying. There, beneath the dim light of the moon, he silently repeated his oath to himself.

For their people, Thorin would reclaim Khazad-dum. For Thorin, Fili would reclaim Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nudûd - brothers  
> Khazad-dum - the kingdom of the Dwarrowdelf, also called Moria (the Black Pit)  
> Kheled-zaram - Mirrormere, a small lake outside the Eastern gate of Khazad-dum. When a Dwarf looks into the lake, they can see the seven stars of the crown of Durin. Only Durin himself can see his own reflection in it.  
> Kibil-nala - the river Celebrant


	2. strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin returns from war.

Uncle Thorin and Uncle Frerin had been gone for almost six years.

Bits and pieces of the army had come back, rested, gone again. New soldiers had grown strong enough to take the place of veterans, although fewer and fewer of those were coming back. One of their cousins had; Fili and Kili didn’t know him very well, except that his name was Gloin and had been injured, and now he had a new baby and that was why he wasn't going back to the war. But their uncles had to stay and fight, because that was what princes were supposed to do.

“Fili, look,” Kili urged one morning as they played outside. He pointed at a dark shape on the road. It was hard to see, because thick white mist was swirling all around the bases of the mountains, but it was approaching fast. “What _is_ it?”

Fili squinted.

“It’s a Dwarf, dummy. On a pony.”

“Nuh uh! It’s too big.”

“He’s not taller than Uncle Thorin.”

“Yes it is, and it’s wider, too. It’s _massive_. I bet it’s a troll.”

“He’s a Dwarf. And how would you even know how tall Uncle is? You were a baby.”

“I remember,” Kili mumbled stubbornly.

Then the pony rode out of the gloom enough for them to ascertain that, yes, its rider was a Dwarf. He was a bit taller than average, but what made him look especially large was his armor, the two enormous axes strapped to his back, and a tall tuft of dark hair. Kili sidled closer to Fili, and Fili couldn’t quite muster up the bravery needed to roll his eyes as the strange Dwarf rode right up to them. The pony slowed to a stop and the Dwarf looked down at them.

“By my beard. Little Fili—and littler Kili.” His voice was hoarse, but it sparked a memory in Fili’s mind. He could imagine that same voice, shouting and laughing, with its broad accent ringing through the room, but he couldn’t quite place it…. “You’ve grown, both of ye. I don’t suppose you remember me.”

He dismounted and leaned down a little bit, and Fili squinted at his face.

“ _I_ do.” He hesitated. “Mister Balin.”

The enormous Dwarf gave him a small grin.

“Other one, lad.”

“Mister Dwalin. That’s what I meant.”

“Wasn’t!” Kili said, indignant, and Fili stomped on his brother’s toes.

“Is your amad here?” Dwalin asked.

Fili nodded and peered down the road. Dwalin’s shaggy pony was a dark brown color easily discernible through the fog; he had been hoping that another pony—white or grey, perhaps, harder to see—might be following him, but it seemed that wasn’t the case.

“Yes, she’s inside. Is Uncle Thorin with you? Amad says he always is.”

Dwalin looked at both of them for a moment silently, and shook his head. His voice sounded like cracking rocks.

“Nay, lads, he’s not here. Come—you ought to be with your mother.”

Kili held up his hands and Dwalin picked him up. Kili made a face when he rested against the uncomfortable plate metal, but he quickly amused himself by trying to reach up and squash Dwalin’s hair flat. His arms weren’t nearly long enough.

Fili drew closer and took the warrior’s hand, because on his face was the same kind of tiredness that Amad’s often held, and she always liked a touch like this when that happened. Dwalin had thick fingers with bands of tattoos on them, and strips of metal strapped to his knuckles. He squeezed Fili’s hand tightly and his fingers were rough with callouses, but Fili didn’t mind. Only other children had soft hands. There was something comforting in Dwalin’s firm grip, he thought.

They approached the door. Dwalin was using one hand to hold Fili and the other to hold Kili, so he leaned closer and Kili knocked for him. Amad answered the door and looked up at the warrior with a shaky sigh.

“Dwalin. It is over, then.”

“Aye.” He bowed his head. “You were right, Dis. We beat back the goblins—but Moria it is and Moria it will remain.”

Amad nodded once, then several times, and stood aside.

“Come in. You look half-starved. Boys…” She hesitated.

“Can we stay, amad?” Fili begged immediately. He had almost had to stop listening at doors, because Kili was impatient and gave them away half the time. Amad looked up at Dwalin, and then nodded.

“Yes, you may. Take a seat at the table—and for goodness’s sake, Kili, leave off his hair. He’s a Dwarf, not a cat.”

Fili and Kili scrambled into chairs, humming with questions. The war was over! They wanted to know everything, every detail of every battle, but the restraint in their mother’s voice made them hold their tongues. Kili decided, after a moment, that he would be more comfortable in his brother’s lap, and Fili hugged him round the middle as they waited. Amad put a kettle on the fire and began to put together a plate for Dwalin.

“My father?” she asked crisply. Dwalin sighed.

“Missing still.” His gaze flickered to Kili—everyone always said that Kili looked just like grandfather. “Dis… have you received a message? I rode hard. Thought I might beat it.”

Amad bowed her head.

“It arrived two nights ago. I—I haven’t told anyone. I couldn’t.”

“Amad?” Fili asked in a small voice. She did not answer him.

“Did Thorin send you?” she asked softly.

“No.”

The silence that fell over the room was heavier than lead. Amad’s shoulders were bent over from it, and suddenly they began to shake. Fili had only seen his mother cry once—the day they had buried their father. Alarmed, he stood and ran to her, letting Kili slip to the floor. He was getting tall now. He reached halfway between her waist and her shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her and rested his head between her shoulder blades. Her hair smelled like the oils she liked to use and then, beneath that, the mines. Dirt and iron dust.

“What’s happened, amad?” he asked, panic sticking like a feather in his throat. “Don’t cry… what’s happened?”

“Nudûd,” she moaned. The sound came from deep in her stomach. “Nudûd. Mahal, no.”

She turned and cupped Fili’s face in her hands. Tears slipped down through her beard. Her eyes were heavy with bags and lit through with reddened veins. She squeezed them shut suddenly, her mouth twisted in grief, and a sob passed her lips as she touched their foreheads together.

“Is he dead?” Fili whispered. “Uncle Thorin—and Uncle Frerin, too?”

She nodded and hugged him close. Fili couldn’t breathe. His mind swam with images of his uncles bloody on the battlefield, but it was _wrong_ , all wrong, it couldn’t be true. His mother sobbed into his hair and he tried to breathe. Behind him, Kili wailed; Amad released him and went to comfort her baby.

The heavy tread of iron boots rang through the room, and then there was the soft clink of armor on wood as Dwalin knelt. Fili turned and looked up into the warrior’s face. There was a knotted scar above one eyebrow. A fresh bandage on his ear. His nose had always been crooked, but it looked like it had been broken again. Dwalin was young, Fili knew—at least compared to his brother, Mister Balin—but he didn’t look it. He looked strong and scared and, yes, tired. Still, looking at him, Fili felt the panic leave him. Though the grief remained, he could breathe again, because he knew that those hateful words were true. There was nothing to be done about them. Dwalin was strong and sturdy as a mountain, and he would not lie.

“Thorin died a king and a hero, little one,” he said gravely. “When all seemed lost, he rallied the Dwarves, killed the Pale Orc, and drove back the goblins. It took many blows to fell him, and even then he lived to name you his heir. He loved you, and all your family, so much.”

He closed his mouth and swallowed, and Fili realized that Dwalin was near tears himself. He had loved him, too.

“And so I, Dwalin son of Fundin, fulfill my oath to him. I pledge my axe, my hammer, and my service to Fili, son of Dis, daughter of Thrain, King Under the Mountain.”

Dwalin bowed his head. Fili did not know what to do—what to say. Was he king? Truly? He did not feel like a king. He felt small and lost and… tired.

So, rather than say something inspirational and kingly, he simply ducked under Dwalin’s great head and hugged him, tightly, and hoped that this properly conveyed his acceptance of his words. After a moment, he heard a sigh rattle through Dwalin’s chest, and the Dwarf hugged him back. He held Fili close, against his plate armor, and Fili’s back straightened. He tilted his chin up and kept his head high and proud, like a son of Durin should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amad - mother  
> nudud - brothers  
> Mahal - "Maker," the name given by the Dwarves to the Vala Aule


	3. tenacity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Fili is 34, Bifur saves his life.

He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, because the sky was black except for the enormous, round white moon—when in reality, it should be early afternoon. Still, that did nothing to alleviate Fili’s fear as a goblin advanced on him, sticky black blood dripping down the side of its face. It raised its weapon, a rough-hewn axe with a wicked point, and he fumbled for the only thing he had to defend himself—a wooden practice sword that Dwalin had made him for his birthday. A rough snarl tore from the goblin’s throat.

And then—thank the Maker—he heard an answering roar erupt from the forest.

“Baruk khazad!”

Fili stumbled backwards as a Dwarf collided with the goblin, swinging a thick-bladed spear. The goblin leapt back with a shrieking hiss and bared its yellow teeth. Again the Dwarf jabbed at it, but the goblin deflected the blow and they danced around each other in a furious whirl of weapons. The woods echoed with grunts and the crack of the Dwarf’s blade colliding with the handle of the goblin’s axe over and over. At one point the Dwarf glanced over his shoulder, spotted Fili, and shouted “Go! Go, little king—” and Fili saw the axe rise.

He screamed a wordless warning, but in the dream, as in life, his savior did not see, and the goblin embedded the axe in his forehead.

 _I killed him_ , Fili thought dumbly. _I killed him_.

The goblin howled in victory, and tried to pry his weapon loose, but the handle, weakened from the battle, broke in his grasp. Then—incredibly, impossibly—the Dwarf pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked weak and dazed, but he lifted his spear and, shaking only slightly, drove the point into the goblin’s shoulder. Fili gaped, and the monster screamed, as the Dwarf drew his weapon back, his eyes crossed, and stabbed him again in the meat of his leg. His blows were quick and soon the goblin was on the ground, unable to stand, blubbering in confusion until the spear pierced his throat and silenced him forever.

Fili fell to his knees beside his hero, hardly able to understand what was happening, and looked dazedly at his head. The axe was buried deep, but it seemed to stem the bleeding. There was only a thin trickle of blood, slowly spilling into his black hair. The Dwarf smiled at him weakly, and his eyes drifted shut.

Help. He needed to get help.

“I’ll be back!” he shouted. “I’ll be back soon, I promise!”

Fili turned away from the wounded Dwarf and the dead goblin and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. The dream-forest stretched on and on in the darkness, and soon it felt like his lungs were shriveled up, his legs were thin as wooden splinters, his head was on fire. He ought to go back. Kings did not run from a fight, didn’t leave an injured companion bleeding on the forest floor, but he kept running and running and running…

Until morning came, and Fili finally managed to wrest his mind away from the memory-turned-nightmare. He awoke with a shudder and felt his brother’s legs twitch against him. Fili tried to glare at him, but was hampered by the dark hair that obscured his vision. Kili’s limbs were heavy against Fili’s, and the young king could feel a host of fresh bruises on his shins; Kili had always been restless in his sleep, and Fili _hated_ sharing a bed with him. But ever since That Day, his brother had insisted, and it was true that the nightmares were usually better when he was there.

Pale sunlight filtered through the shuttered window, and Fili knew his mother would be awake already. Carefully, he untangled himself from the twisted blankets and his brother’s sleeping grip, and followed the heady scent of fresh bread to the kitchen. Dis was sitting there with a plate and a cup of tea in front of her, gazing thoughtfully into the distance.

“Morning, amad,” he yawned.

“Good morning.” Her eyes raked his face too shrewdly, and she frowned. “Did you sleep, child?”

“Yes,” Fili replied stubbornly. He sat down at the table and reached for a thick slice of bread. It was still warm, and he smeared it liberally with honey.

“Bad dreams?” his mother asked quietly.

Fili stuffed half a slice of bread into his mouth so he didn’t have to answer, and a glob of honey spilled over his lips and onto the table. Dis pursed her lips and moved the pot out of his reach. Then she stood, reaching into one of the thousand pockets of her dress, and stepped behind Fili. With caring, patient hands, she began to comb and braid his hair. The rich scent of bread, and the thin, sweet one of tea, and the sharp one of hair oil mingled in the morning air. Fili breathed deeply. Slowly, his crackling nerves calmed. He couldn’t think of anything that smelled less like blood.

“Can I see him today?”

Dis set the comb down and took another sip of tea before she answered.

“I will ask. But do not get your hopes up, Fili; he did not wish to be seen yesterday.”

Fili nodded and tried to hide his disappointment.

“Does he hate me?” he asked in a small voice.

“Hate you? Dearest, no! Bifur does not _hate_ you.”

“I would, if some foolish boy-king got an axe stuck in _my_ head.”

His mother continued to braid his hair, though she paused to tug especially hard on a thick tangle—deliberately, Fili thought. He winced.

“You do him no credit, my little king—nor any of your people, if you doubt their faithfulness. His injury causes him anger and pain, yes, but Bifur does not blame you. He is relieved that you survived and honored to have served the house of Durin again. If he hates anyone, I imagine it would be goblins.”

Fili’s lips curved into a smile as he resumed his breakfast.

“You should have seen him, amad. He’s not a _great_ fighter, like you or Dwalin, but he just kept _going_. Over and over and over again. He must have gotten in fifty blows in five minutes!”

“Yes, I have heard from all reports that he is very brave—and if you reach for that pot again, my lad, I will dump it in your hair, see if I won’t.”

Soon after, Kili woke, and the three Dwarves finished their meal together. Fili dressed for a boring day of lessons and constant supervision; Dwalin had been _furious_ at him for going into the woods alone. They had decided, after scrupulous investigation, that it had been a lone goblin who fled from Angmar to Ered Luin after some internal conflict, and that there were no other orcs or goblins in any of the woods within fifty miles of the Dwarven settlement. Still, Fili had been placed under rather careful watch, and he was looking forward to very little excitement that day… until there was a knock on the door. He paused in the act of tying his boot as his mother answered it. He couldn’t hear the exact words, but he recognized the voice of his cousin Oin—the healer who had been looking after Bifur. Immediately he rushed out of the bedroom and into the foyer, his untied shoe slipping on the wooden floor. He looked up at Oin hopefully, and Oin gave him a craggy smile.

“Mornin’, lad. Bifur’s mother has asked for an audience, if you’ll grant one. She says he wants to see you—wanted to last night, in truth, but she thought it might be too late.”

“Can I go now, amad?” he asked immediately. “ _Please_?”

“Come here, let me have a look at you,” Dis said. Fili stood very straight with his hands clasped behind his back as his mother investigated him. She tugged his shirt neater and clucked at his untied shoe, but with a nod she indicated that he had passed inspection. “Tie your laces. And you’d best behave properly, Fili. This isn’t like visiting family—you’ll be a king to those Dwarves and you’ll act like one. Mind your manners, thank Bifur properly, and don’t ask any uncomfortable questions.”

“Should I fetch my beads?” he asked, reaching up to finger the simple leather bands that tied his braids. He had others, made of gold and stamped with the Durin crest, but he had only worn them once.

“ _No_.” His mother and Oin exchanged a glance, and her voice was gentler when she spoke again. She cupped his chin and Fili looked up into her eyes—so like his, but too often tempered by sadness. “Fili… remember that not all of your people are as fortunate as we are. There are times when you must look a proper king, and times when you must _act_ like one. I trust you will do well, inudoy.”

“I will, amad,” he said with a nod. “ _Now_ can we go?”

\---

Bifur had been discharged from the infirmary some days ago, although Oin still made regular trips to examine him, and the visit thus took place at his home. It was not a large house—perhaps two or three rooms larger than the one Fili shared with his mother and Kili—nor a well-kept one, but Fili blinked in astonishment when he saw how many Dwarves were living in it. They all stood when he entered the room and introduced themselves, and he tried to attach a name to each face, though he knew he would quickly forget.

There was Bifur, of course, and his mother Brar, sister Bril, and nephew Dal. Then there was a whole host of cousins: Bofur and Bombur and Bamfur, and Bombur’s wife Mir and their children Dram and Mar and Brar II, and Bamfur’s husband Kala and their son Bal. They all had either dark hair or shockingly red, and they stood in a great row and bowed to him and Dis as they introduced themselves.

Fili thought about how many must share a bed, with all those kicking feet, and silently resolved never to complain about Kili again.

While he had been introduced to the enormous family, Bifur had simply sat on a little stool at the end of the line, beaming with pride. Occasionally he moved to stand, but his mother stopped him with a hand on the shoulder and a whispered word. Finally, Fili walked up to him, mentally going over the thank you and apology that he had been trying to write for days, and Bifur stood.

“Hail Fili, son of Dis, King Under the Mountain!” he cried in Khuzdul that was only a bit rough around the edges. He bowed deeply, and many members of his family cheered and clapped. “Bifur, son of Borur, at your service.”

“At yours and your family’s!” Fili replied delightedly, as the rest of the family began to file out of the sitting room, clearly having seen all they needed to see. “You can _talk_!”

“Aye,” said Brar in a warm voice. She stood and looped her arm through her son’s. She was a short Dwarf, barely reaching his shoulders, with a mass of silver and black hair braided in a thick crown on her head, and a neat silver beard. “He can’t manage Westron, but he can speak in Khuzdul. Sometimes the words get mixed up—he’s been practicing those for two days, whenever he had a spare moment, and wouldn’t see you ’til he could. I’m very sorry for the impertinence, my king, but my son can be stubborn as anything.”

Embarrassed, Fili waved away the apology and the title, and grinned up at Bifur.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. You can’t take down a goblin without a bit of stubbornness, right?”

“Bah,” Bifur said dismissively. “Shazara.”

He seemed to realize that the word made no sense in context and he frowned, a dazed look in his eye. Fili’s gaze was drawn to the axe in his head and the dark red scabs that surrounded the wound—as thick and cracked as dragon scales. Bifur turned to his mother.

“Shazara… zuz?” he offered, patiently searching for the word he needed. “Baruk… mazarb…”

“Azanulbizar?” she suggested after a few attempts, and he nodded. She turned to Fili. “Bifur means to say he fought at Azanulbizar—most of our family did. It’d take more than _one_ goblin to worry us.”

“It was still important to _me_.” He stepped up to Bifur and bowed. “Akminruk zu,” he said simply.

Bifur smiled at him and then unexpectedly bent down and pulled Fili into a tight hug. Fili, after a moment of surprise, hugged him back, and did not let go until he felt Brar pulling the older Dwarf away.

“That’s enough, inudoy,” she muttered. “I’m sorry. He can’t help himself sometimes, you know. Oin says— _it_ damaged the part of the brain that stops impulses…”

“I don’t mind,” Fili said hastily. “I really don’t.”

But after that, the visit became more formal. Brar offered them tea and cakes, and they sat down and talked about the weather and other awkward things. Then Dis asked about Brar’s grandchildren and grand-nephews and –nieces, and they talked like old friends for a few minutes about that while Bifur and Fili sat quietly. Soon, though, Dis stood and indicated that Fili should join her.

“We thank you again for coming to Fili’s aid,” she said to Bifur, earnestly and somberly. “You saved his life—I cannot articulate how much I am in your debt.” Bifur looked uncomfortable, and he started to shake his head, but Dis held up her hand. “I understand that you have refused any reward, and I do not seek to grant one. But you and your cousins are toymakers, are you not?”

“More miners, my lady,” Brar said softly, and her cheeks were red. That meant they could not find enough buyers for their crafts to be anything but coal miners. It was a lowly job, and not one that a Dwarf like Bifur should stoop to, Fili thought.

“No longer. My youngest son has outgrown most of his old childhood playthings, and my cousin has a young lad who would appreciate a sampling of your wares. Would you and your cousin be willing to visit the house of Gloin, son of Groin, next week and present a selection? Some of our family and friends with young ones will be there.”

Brar’s eyes widened, and Fili grinned to himself. Everyone always wanted to sell something to the Queen Regent and her family—and his cousin Gloin was known to trade things far and wide. To be given the opportunity to sell to him, not to accept charity, would be a great boon to this family. He stepped closer to his mother and took her hand, giving it a grateful squeeze. He should have thought of it himself, but at least she had come up with a proper thank you.

“We would be honored,” Brar said, and she and her son both bowed. “Thank you, my lady.”

“And would you come for tea someday?” Fili asked blurted suddenly. “When you’ve remembered more Khuzdul, maybe?”

Something flickered in Bifur’s eyes, and Fili guessed that it was more frustrating than he let on, not being able to speak for himself. Still, he was improving so _quickly_ , and there was absolutely nothing in his face or body that indicated defeat. The Dwarf nodded, and Fili grinned at him.

“I would wish you luck—but I think you’ll do fine without it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akminruk zu - Thank you
> 
> shazara - silence  
> zuz - bad  
> baruk - axes  
> mazarb - records
> 
> None of these words are necessarily associated to Azanulbizar; they were chosen because of their similarity to the actual word. Much thanks (as always when I write Bifur) to asktheoakenshieldbros on tumblr for their [amazing resources and thoughts](http://asktheoakenshieldbros.tumblr.com/post/52448237551/my-bifur-ranting-masterpost) on Bifur's disability.


	4. wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili sits through a boring history lesson with his cousin. In this chapter, he is 39.

The room was filled with the sound of wind pressing against the one window, bees humming, birds whistling as their wings beat the air, and then—in a dull counterpoint—two young voices reciting the names of the Dwarven kingdoms of old.

“Khazad-dûm, Gabilgathol, Tumunzahar, Ânmekhem…”

Fili mumbled along with his brother and his cousin without really hearing the answers and without caring. It was too fine a day to be inside the mountains—especially when they were doing something so boring. He glanced at Gimli in annoyance. He liked his cousin well enough, but Gimli was _young_. Not even thirty! Why he should be in lessons with him and Kili, Fili had no idea, except that Balin was fond of him. Of course, Balin and Gimli’s father Gloin were from the same branch of the family, and Balin had no children or nieces and nephews of his own, so it made sense that he would see to the boy’s education. But that was no reason to tutor him at the _same time_ as he tutored them. Dwalin didn’t.

Although, for that matter, Fili didn’t see why he needed to be tutored with Kili either. His brother didn’t like many of the things that Fili wanted to learn about most, and always spent more time trying to distract Fili than actually paying attention himself. It would be much better, Fili thought, if Balin would just give him the books and let him do as he pleased… sure, books were rare and expensive, but he _was_ the king.

And his mother would thump him in the head if she heard him making that argument. Fili blew a braid out of his eyes and continued mumbling along with the other Dwarves.

“Very good,” Balin said approvingly as they finished. “Very good—I can see you’ve all practiced. Especially you, laddie,” he said, ruffling Gimli’s wild red hair with a wink. Gimli nearly flew out of his chair with pride. “That ought to be enough for today, I think.”

The three young Dwarves all leapt up and exchanged eager glances before bowing to their teacher. Fili was halfway to the door, and Kili had already reached it, when Balin called his name. He bit back a groan.

“Yes, Mister Balin?” he asked.

“I nearly forgot, I have one more question to end the lesson. No, you both can go ahead,” he said as Kili turned with an _audible_ groan and Gimli paused. “This one is just for Fili.”

Without another second’s pause, they disappeared out the door. Fili sighed and sat down, folding his hands as he looked up at his tutor.

Fili had known the Balin practically since he was born, and it seemed that he had been wise and old the entire time. He looked even more so now, with more white in his beard than grey, and that friendly, grandfatherly grin on his face—even though his eyes were dark and calculating as ever. Fili shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“By the way, lad… when there are only three Dwarrows in front of me, it’s fairly obvious when one has his head in the mountaintops,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

Fili felt his face heat, even though the admonishment was really better suited to his brother. He _did_ like learning from Balin, really, and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he had spent the last week doing more complaining than actual listening.

“I’ll pay more attention next time.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Balin said cheerfully. “But that’s beside the point. Here’s my question: I want to know why the Longbeards have settled in the Blue Mountains.”

Fili frowned. That seemed… depressingly easy. The kind of question Gimli should be answering, not him.

“It’s just a history question, then? So you want to know about Smaug and all that?”

“No, I know that already,” Balin chuckled. “I’ve lived it, laddie. I mean that, after we lost Erebor, King Thrain and his heirs needed some place to go. They all put their heads together and thought long and hard about it—why did they choose Ered Luin?”

The wind pushed more insistently against the window, but Fili hardly noticed it except to purse his lips at the distraction. This was a more difficult question and for a few long moments his head was empty of everything but a dull kind of buzzing.

“I don’t think they did,” he said slowly. He hated admitting that he didn’t know the answer, but if it wasn’t a fair question then he really had no other choice. Balin raised his eyebrows.

“No?”

“No… their choice was Khazad-dûm, wasn’t it? But they knew they couldn’t go there first, because it would be disastrous to fight a war with the entire clan on the battlefield, and in any case too many Dwarves had been injured or killed by the dragon. So instead we settled here to gather strength until Grandfather thought we were strong enough to fight the Orcs.”

Balin closed his eyes and nodded. He had fought in the war, too—Fili remembered vaguely that he had lost someone in the Battle of Azanulbizar. A parent maybe? Yes—his mother. He had been surprised to learn that, because Dwarrowdams didn’t usually fight in the army, but it had made sense when he thought of Dwalin. Fili looked Balin up and down, trying to imagine him wearing armor with an axe in hand, and couldn’t manage it.

“A good point, that, and a good start. Now, dig a little deeper and tell me why Ered Luin was their second choice.”

Fili’s thoughts were racing and he bit the corner of his lips as he tried to concentrate. The more he thought about it, really, the more confused he was. _Why_ Ered Luin, really? The mines had been almost picked dry… it was only in the last decade or so that they had started making large profits… and it was so far away from the other Dwarven settlements, or anything really, except the Shire. Merchants had to travel for months and months to get anywhere worth the trip. (Gimli hadn’t seen his father for six weeks, he remembered with a pang of guilt, and likely wouldn’t see him again for twice that length of time. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing for Balin to bring him around.)

A minute of silence ticked by before Balin prompted “Why not the Iron Hills?”

“Too small,” Fili said instantly, remembering his geography lessons. “Too far from Khazad-dûm, as well. And…” He chewed his lip again as he carefully arranged the words in the right order, and tested them as he spoke. “Well, Gror had already ruled in the Iron Hills for decades before Nain succeeded him. _Technically_ that branch of Durin’s line aren’t kings, but they’re royal and Erebor never interfered with their sovereignty over the Hills. They might have been a bit irritated if Thror just showed up and took over. Never a god idea to have too many kings in one place,” he said, adapting one of Dwalin’s lessons on battle maneuvers.

“Not a very pleasant thing to say, my king,” Balin said, but his eyes were twinkling. “Aren’t the Dwarves of the Iron Hills our allies? And their lord, I might add, is he not your cousin?”

“They’re still _Dwarves_. Loyal, but they have their pride as well. It’s not pleasant, but it’s _practical_.”

For a moment, Balin looked startled, and then he began to laugh.

“Dear me,” he wheezed. “Oh, the number of times I heard that—I suppose you picked it up from your mother, hmm?”

“She says it sometimes,” Fili said cautiously. “Why’s that so funny?”

“Nothing, laddie—don’t let me distract you. You’re doing very well.”

“Right… well, with the Iron Hills out there aren’t very many places left. The Grey Mountains, the Blue Mountains, the parts of the Misty Mountains that weren’t covered in Orcs. The range on this side of Dunland would’ve worked just as well, I think. If anyone had asked me, I probably would have said there. It’s closer to Men for trading, and it’s just as far south as we are now, away from the dragon nests in the north. Although… after Thranduil’s betrayal, maybe Grandfather didn’t want to treat with Men. Best to rely on our own kind, and there were already Dwarves living in Ered Luin, because of—”

Suddenly, Fili sucked in his breath, and his eyes widened happily as everything fell into place.

“Gabilgathol! Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar! That’s why they chose the Blue Mountains—my great-grandmother was a Firebeard, wasn’t she? And Grandmother had Broadbeam blood, too, amad told me that.”

“And that is relevant because…?”

“ _Because_ ,” Fili snapped impatiently. “Because it’s not running away if they can say they’re really coming back somewhere. That’s why they wanted to go to Khazad-dûm, because it’s ours by right. Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar don’t exist anymore, but if they did, Great-grandfather and Grandfather could perhaps have a right to them, too. It’s a way of reminding people that they can still rely on us as rulers, reminding them of the great Dwarf kingdoms of old. It gives people hope.”

Balin’s grin was so wide it stretched from one ear to the other, and he clasped his gloved hands together happily.

“That, my lad, is an _excellent_ answer.”

“I’m right? Truly?” Fili beamed.

“Haven’t the foggiest idea if you are or not—I’m not a king and I’m certainly not Thror. I can’t tell you what he thought, but I can tell you that _your_ thoughts are very sensible, my king. Well done.”

He began to pack up his books and his slate into his bag, and Fili frowned.

“I like getting the right answer,” he admitted.

“I know you do, but I’m afraid that, once you get to be a certain age, right answers present themselves very rarely. If you continue to come to lessons with your brother and Gimli, they still have many easy answers to discover, but I do not think that is your wish. I will speak to your mother, see if we can’t find some arrangement that suits everyone better.” Balin smiled at him as he passed and squeezed Fili’s shoulder fondly. He paused at the door. “Oh, and because you did ask… Thorin used to use that phrase often, when people said that a prince shouldn’t lower himself to forging shovels and horseshoes. _Not pleasant, but practical_.”

He nodded firmly, his eyes distant, and disappeared into the stone corridor. Fili sat there for a moment, listening to the sound of birds flapping around outside and thinking of forge-rough hands spread over old maps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabilgathol (Belegost) and Tumunzahar (Nogrod) were the kingdoms of the Broadbeams and the Firebeards, respectively, which were located in the Blue Mountains and destroyed in the First Age. Ânmekhem (Rivergate) is a name I made up for a Dwarven settlement in the Red Mountains, which Tolkien didn't name.
> 
> Also, Balin and Dwalin were Gimli's second cousins and Fili's fourth cousins one time removed, which is why I decided they would both be close with Gimli for the purpose of this fic. It also works given the depth of Gimli's emotional reaction over Balin's death in Lord of the Rings.


	5. courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Kili have a heart-to-heart with Ori about family.

Fili did not attend the funeral of Damri, daughter of Tolri, himself. His mother did not think it would be proper—might give leave for tongues to begin wagging again about the alleged relationship between Tolri’s mother and his great-great uncle Gror, which was the last thing anyone wanted at a funeral, particularly the three grieving sons Damri had left behind. They sent ale and their regrets, though, with Dwalin, who returned and promptly made Dis (and Fili and Kili, who had finally learned the trick of how to listen properly at doors) aware of the scandal.

Apparently one of those grieving sons had shown up late and drunk. His brother had shouted at him, and in the ensuing argument it had been acknowledged in public for the first time that Damri’s third child had been born quite a few years after her husband died—and that both younger boys bore more striking resemblance to each other than to Damri or Dori’s father. Some even claimed that a knife had been drawn while all the dirty laundry was being aired, although Dwalin personally had not seen anything, and any weapon that _Dwalin_ didn’t notice was almost guaranteed to never have existed in the first place.

It was all quite thrilling, and was the source of many whispered conversations in Ered Luin for several days afterwards, so Fili was not surprised when, one afternoon, he went out walking with his brother and stumbled across the youngest of the brothers Ri tucked, crying, under an oak tree.

Kili took one look and marched right towards him, and Fili grabbed his arm.

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed.

“I’m going to help him,” Kili said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“How?”

“By saying something, obviously!”

“By saying what, Kili?” Fili demanded. “You’ve better have a damn good idea, because you can’t just go up to a crying Dwarf and start blathering out the first thing that pops into your head! You’ll embarrass him.”

“It’s only _Ori_ ,” Kili mumbled, but he did at least hold back for a moment.

There were not very many other Dwarves living in their settlement; it was too close to the old Firebeard lands, and most of the mines had been empty when the refugees of Erebor settled there. As such, Kili and Fili had met all the Dwarves their age who lived within twenty miles, though there were few that they were close to. They didn’t _know_ Ori, really—but it had always seemed as though there wasn’t much to know. He liked his books and his drawings, he was fond of his brothers, and he was a kind little fellow. Nothing else had seemed important.

“I can’t think of anything,” Kili said impatiently. “I mean I can think of twenty things, but now you’ve made me second-guess myself. _You_ go say something.”

Fili sighed and poked his head out from behind the enormous elm tree they had taken refuge behind. Ori was crying very quietly, more sniffling really, and wiping at his eyes with his knitted gloves. It was late autumn, and the chill bite of winter was just beginning to nip at the air—if Dori could see him, he undoubtedly would have bullied him into a warmer cloak. Fili noticed that he had a flat slate of wood with him, and some scraps of parchment.

“Follow in five minutes,” he muttered to Kili. Then he coughed loudly, and stomped his feet on the crackling leaves and fragile branches as he approached the tree where Ori had secluded himself.

“Afternoon,” he called cheerfully. Ori looked up and plastered a weak smile on his face.

“Good afternoon.”

“What’ve you got there, Ori?” he asked, leaning against the tree.

“Nothing,” the dwarf shrugged.

“Oh come on, let me see.”

“Nothing, really,” Ori said ruefully, and he spread his hands so that Fili could see the parchment. There were rubbing on it from where charcoal lines had been erased, and some ink spots around the edges that indicated the pages had been torn from something already written on, but other than that they were blank.

“Do you want to be left alone, then? Wouldn’t want to distract you or anything.”

“No, no. I’m fine. You’re fine. Everything’s....”

The last word choked in the back of his throat and he pressed his lips together tightly. For half a moment his eyes flickered up and around Fili’s face, desperately searching for a way to save the conversation, and then he gave up. He looked straight ahead, and rested his head against the trunk of the tree.

Fili slid down into a crouch and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said softly.

“Oh, that,” Ori said, waving his hand. He pulled his knees up to his chest and sighed. “I’ll be all right. She was old... and I don’t think she liked _being_ a mother very much, to be honest.”

“But she _was_ , still. And that means something,” Fili said. He thought of his own mother and shivered, and Ori looked at him thoughtfully.

“Yes it does,” he said in a quiet voice. “Although I don’t think my brothers would agree with you. Anyway, thank you very much for the ale; we weren’t expecting it.”

Fili shrugged. He had helped write the note of condolences, but he had never met Damri and it didn’t seem fair to take credit for a good deed he hadn’t much cared about.

“How’s your brother’s head?” he asked with a bit of a smile, thinking it might lighten the mood. Ori’s frown deepened.

“Don’t know,” he muttered. “Nori’s gone off. Dori says he won’t tell me where, but I don’t think he knows, either. He left right after the funeral.”

 _Idiot_ , Fili thought with a wince.

“Brothers,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Aye.”

As if on cue, they heard the theatrical smashing of leaves.

“ _There_ you are, brother... hullo Ori!”

“What’s that they say?” Ori said under his breath with a bit of a smile in his voice. “Speak a dragon’s name...”

“And he’ll answer,” Fili finished grimly.

Kili sat down in front of Ori, and leaned forward curiously.

“Are those _ribbons_ in your hair?”

There were—lavender ribbons threaded through his braids. Fili bit back a smile. They did look a bit silly... very Hobbity, he thought. Not that he had ever seen a Hobbit himself, but Gloin had told plenty of stories and ribbons seemed like something they would do. Dwarves usually wore strips of leather or little bits of metal.

Ori didn’t even bat an eye.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I like them,” he said simply, reaching up to roll the ends of one of his braids between his fingers.

Despite the ridiculousness of the style, there was something in Ori’s simple, straightforward answer that Fili liked, and he smiled—until he saw a splotch on Ori’s neck, just poking up above his collar, that was a matching lavender color. He noticed again the way that the Dwarf was hunched over, and a deep scowl marred his face.

“Ori—what’s that?”

Ori’s hand flew to his neck and his cheeks pinked.

“It’s not—”

But Kili, catching on as quick as lightning, reached out and yanked down his sleeve, revealing pale red bruises in the shape of a grasping hand. Fili and his brother exchanged a dark look; Ori didn’t like weapons training in general, and he certainly hadn’t been looking for sparring partners in the days since his mother’s funeral. The bruises were no accident.

“Who did it?” Fili demanded.

“It’s none of your business, really,” Ori said primly, turning his head away from both of them.

“I’m the _king_ ,” he retorted. He straightened his shoulders and ignored Kili’s startled look as he kept his eyes fixed on Ori’s face. “It is my business if any of my clan aren’t safe. Tell me who, Ori.”

Slowly, Ori turned back around. He regarded Fili curiously, his head tilted and his brows drawn together. Fili tried to hold his gaze, but he could feel embarrassment painting the back of his neck red. He didn’t have much experience pulling rank, because every time he did in his mother’s presence she made sure to give him an earful. She said he could throw around his title only when he had earned it, and it didn’t seem fair to claim it now, when he really didn’t know what he _would_ do if he found out who had hurt Ori. But he had had to say something.

After a moment that might have lasted years, Ori nodded.

“If it happens again, I’ll tell you, but I don’t think it will. They got bored rather quickly.”

“What actually happened?” Kili pressed. Ori shrugged.

“They were insulting my brothers. And my mum. They said some really _filthy_ things and I got angry, so—well, I shouted back.” He gave an embarrassed grin. “I suppose I got a bit nasty, myself… Nori always says my axe has more shine than edge, so I didn’t fight back much. But like I said, they got bored after a minute, and I’m not hurt. Just because I can’t swing a sword like you two doesn’t mean I can’t take a punch; I’m as tough as anyone.”

“Well…” Kili began. Fili elbowed him.

“Why don’t you find someone to teach you how to fight?” he asked instead. “We can ask Dwalin, maybe…”

Dwalin didn’t teach many young Dwarves, because he made his real living by guarding the trading caravans, but it was possible that he might agree to teach Ori if Fili asked him. He couldn’t be _very_ behind Gimli.

“I don’t think so,” Ori said, sucking in his lip.

“Or even your brothers,” Kili suggested. “I’ve seen Dori carrying around sacks of flower and everything—he’s _strong_ , isn’t he? And I’ll bet you anything Nori’s picked up a few tricks even Dwalin doesn’t know,” he said, grinning in Fili’s direction.

Fili thought that, if Dori had any interest in teaching Ori to fight, he would have done so already, but he didn’t say anything. An odd smile crossed Ori’s face, but before he could respond a sound made all three look up. It was a voice, calling Ori’s name.

“That’ll be Dori,” Ori said unnecessarily. “He worries,” he said, almost as an apology, before raising his voice. “Over here, Dori.”

They heard the sound of footsteps on the dry foliage, and then Ori’s middle-aged brother walked through the trees, brushing impatiently at the crumbled leaves that stuck to his sleeves. He looked surprised to see Fili and Kili, but he bowed and greeted them hastily before turning to his brother.

“It’s much too cold out to be walking about this time of year,” he fussed, _exactly_ as Fili thought he would. He tried not to smirk. “I’ve been looking for you; come along, you’re needed at home.”

“All right,” Ori relented. He stood, and Fili and Kili stood with him. “Good to see you both,” he said, raising his hand.

“Dori,” Kili blurted out before Fili could stop him. “Have you ever thought of teaching Ori how to fight? You really should; it’s for his own good.”

“I think he’d be good at it, too,” Fili said. He wouldn’t have put the decision in Dori’s hands, but Kili had and the least he could do was put in a good word. “He’s—brave.”

That earned him stares from all three Dwarves, but he stood firm. Dori began to brush leaves off of Ori’s coat, shaking his head.

“No, I don’t think that’s quite necessary. We’ve no cause to be fighting with anyone, in my mind.”

They said their goodbyes, and Ori shrugged in a “thanks for trying” kind of way as he turned and walked home. He adjusted the sleeves of his coat, and Fili wondered if Dori would notice the bruises. Probably. And if anything, it would make him less likely to put a weapon in Ori’s hand and show him how to use it.

“We should ask Dwalin anyway,” Kili declared.

“Amad would thump you.”

“He’s as old as I am and he doesn’t even know how to fight!”

“That’s his family’s business, not ours.”

“I thought everything was your business, Your Majesty,” Kili said mockingly. Fili elbowed him and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut it, Your Royal Nuisance,” he said, and they bickered quite comfortably as they, too, headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actors who play the Brothers Ri have mentioned the possibility that they all have different fathers; I've tweaked that a little bit to better fit my idea of their home life, more of which will be revealed in later chapters. The idea of them being distant relatives of Thorin is also mentioned in the Behind the Scenes info on the Dwarves.
> 
> Also, I chose Ori to represent "courage," rather than Dwalin or Fili, etc, because I'm really impressed that the dwarf whose weapon is a _slingshot_ was the one who declared himself unafraid to give a dragon a "taste of dwarvish iron."


	6. observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rather disastrous boar hunt, Fili reluctantly accepts Oin's help.

It was downright embarrassing. Fili was fifty-eight years old,  a mere breath away from maturity (though his mother did not agree that twelve years constituted a “breath”), capable of wielding a full sword with ease, and the veteran of many hunts. To be left at the end of all his efforts sitting in his cousin’s workroom and being poked and prodded over a _scratch_ was insulting, to say the least.

“Reach forward,” Oin commanded.

Fili obliged, and then immediately regretted it as his lungs let out an involuntary squeak of pain. Oin’s frown deepened as he continued to press a square of cloth against the wound that skated across Fili’s rib cage.

“To the side.”

That was less painful.

“Up. Hm?” he asked as Fili made a face but no sound.

“It doesn’t hurt much,” he explained. “But it’s odd—a kind of tugging feeling.”

“Right,” Oin said crisply, guiding Fili’s arm so that it extended sideways and gave space to the wound. “It’ll need stitching up, then. The muscle’s torn, but not deep. Boar’s tusk, Dwalin said?”

“Aye.”

“Well, luckily it doesn’t seem sharp as some. There’ll be bruising, and lots of it, but you’ll live. The greatest danger, to my mind, is infection. Those buggers aren’t the cleanest of beasts.”

Oin grimaced as he directed Fili to hold the cloth against the cut. He walked around and began bustling around his workshop. It was definitely an interesting room, Fili thought. Not one that he had ever had much occasion to step foot in—Kili had always been the one more prone to serious injuries like broken bones and such. He looked around the room and amused himself by trying to imagine what in the world most of its contents were for. Bundles of drying branches hung from one wall, and there were two tables: one low enough for Oin to observe patients stretched out across it and one a bit higher, for working. The latter was home to mortars and pestles and knives and cotton bandages and bits of wood and parchment covered in Oin’s scratchy handwriting.

The shelves and drawers, though, were the most interesting things in the room. There was an entire wall of them, half of the drawers pulled open. Powders, herbs, lineaments and creams were stuff everywhere, some labeled with dots of paint, some marked only in Oin’s memory. There were bandages and splints resting on the shelves--almost rolling off them, truth be told--in at least four places, as well as some wicked-looking instruments that he didn’t try to identify.

Oin was just approaching Fili again, with a flask of water and two glass jars in his arms, when the door opened. Fili glanced at it and groaned.

“ _No_. Go away.”

“I’m here to help my uncle,” Gimli said innocently, though his smirk was far from it.

“He’s a grown Dwarf--why would he need _your_ help?”

“Because if you keep waving your arm around like that, lad, I’ll need someone to hold you still,” Oin interrupted, yanking Fili’s arm into the proper place again. “And with a wound like that, Gimli’s plenty stronger than you, so sit tight.”

Gimli snickered and Fili pulled a face. Oin knelt before him, uncorking the water skin, and indicated that he should remove the fabric. It has started out white; now it was stained a deep red, with a rusty brown around the edges. Blood still leaked out the edges of the gash, but slower than before, and Oin eyed it shrewdly as he poured the water over it.

“Salt water’s good for wounds if you can get nothing else,” he commented in an absent way to Gimli. He set the flash down and patted the wound gently with a clean cloth, then unscrewed the cap to one of the jars. Immediately Fili was overwhelmed by a strong smell—earthy and sweet, but with a bite that made his nose twitch. “This stuff’s better—clove oil. Needs to be diluted, but it works wonders against infections. And then after that there’s this paste of comfrey root, that helps stem the bleeding and makes the wound close quicker. _Never_ put it on a dirty wound, you hear?”

Fili refused to wince as Oin cleaned the wound and, with expert precision, stitched his skin shut. Gimli, at least, really _did_ pay attention to Oin’s lesson rather than teasing his cousin. Oin finished speedily and then looked over the needle he had used with a bit of a frown.

“I’ll be needing new ones soon,” he muttered to himself. He pulled a purse from inside his jacket and fished out a few coin. “Run along to Fera,” he ordered, holding them out to Gimli. “Tell her I need half a dozen; she knows the kind I like.”

Gimli nodded dutifully and left, while Fili remained still as stone and waited to be dismissed.

“You were lucky this time, Fili,” Oin said cheerfully. “The wound’s not bad and you’re young yet. By two weeks it should be healed completely, and I’d say by three you’ll be at full strength again—but so help me, lad, if you go _near_ a sword before those two weeks are up, I’ll have your hide. And you can tell that to Dwalin, too.”

“I don’t think I’ll be allowed near a sword for that long anyway,” Fili said grimly. “If I couldn’t even manage a great stinking beast like that, he’ll probably think I’m more likely to injure myself.”

Oin chuckled as he finished fashioning bandages around Fili’s ribs. He clapped his hands and indicated that Fili was allowed to move, and immediately the young Dwarf stood and straightened to his full height. His side gave a nasty twinge, but he could breathe and move and that was enough. He stepped forward to clasp his cousin’s hands in gratitude—and had to suppress a grimace as his weight rested on the ankle he had twisted in the boar chase. It had been the smallest disaster in a series of disasters, and he had not bothered to mention it.

Immediately, Oin’s flared eyebrows rose and his eyes swooped down Fili’s body to settle, unnervingly, on the injured ankle.

“Sit,” he ordered. Fili obeyed with a sigh.

“It’s nothing.”

“Which of us is the healer, now?”

Reluctantly, Fili untied his boot and presented his ankle for inspection. Just as he had suspected, it was swollen but not serious—dwarves had good thick bones, and Oin did nothing but wrap it tightly in linen and order him to put up his feet every once in a while, which Fili privately refused to do, unless he was asleep. His brother and Gimli would _never_ let him hear the end of it.

“I didn’t even expect anyone to notice,” he muttered. Oin accepted it for the grudging compliment that it was, and winked as he stood and tossed the linen back in its pile.

“Most folk think the trick to being a healer is some kind of special knowledge. It’s not, really. Mostly you’ve got to be on the lookout, notice the little details that most would miss. There’s a world of difference between a strong leg and a weak one, a rash and an illness, a wound that looks on the way to infection and one on the way to healing. Helps, too, when you need to know the difference between foxglove leaf and comfrey leaf.”

Fili’s hand immediately flew to the wound at his side.

“You do know the difference, right?” he asked. Oin cuffed him on the head.

“If you think I’d put foxglove into my king’s bloodstream, then you’re more foolish then your brother.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Fili laughed, holding up his hands. “Thought I’d better make sure.”

“Besides, you’re in for a long life. I told your mother, a whole flock of ravens began settling in the woods by Belegost the day you were born, and that’s a good omen if ever I saw one.”

Fili stood again, gingerly testing his weight on his wounded leg, as he tried desperately not to smirk. Gimli was always going on about his uncle’s predictions--anything Oin said was as good as law, in his mind. Gloin believed them, too, and a whole host of other grown Dwarves who should probably know better. Fili’s mother did not, although she always stressed the importance of not saying so in front of Oin, who after all _was_ a very good healer and deserving of respect. Dwalin only snorted and shook his head, and if Fili asked Balin, his teacher would only give some noncommittal answer and direct Fili to more reliable sources of information.

Recently, though, Fili had begun to wonder. Some Dwarves just had funny senses of humor, and he wouldn’t put it past Oin to come up with his more ridiculous predictions just to amuse himself—or to give comforting ones to sick people so that they might believe them and heal faster. He leaned against Oin’s counter as his cousin packed away the bandages, and thought that it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Oin,” he said thoughtfully, “Do you _really_ believe in that kind of thing?”

“Hm?” the healer said absently.

“Omens and fortune-telling.”

“If I didn’t believe in it, why would I go along wagging my tongue about it?” Oin asked, and Fili shrugged.

“Gimli believes it... lots of people do. You might be just telling them things they want to hear.”

His cousin snorted, and immediately Fili realized that it had been a stupid thing to say. Healers spent their days telling people that their infected hands needed to be amputated, that their children were seriously ill, that they needed to stay in bed and rest rather than go work to feed their families—Oin was hardly one to honey-coat things just because people wanted him to.

“I tell folk the truth as I see it. It’s not so far-fetched as you think, lad. I cast the stones and read palms to learn what is, because Mahal shaped them to stand firm. For the close future I inspect plants, because Aburâlinh made them sensitive to change. And for what is yet to come I test the winds and the birds, because Baghudâl sees farther than any other. Faith, close watching, and a mite bit of cleverness is all that’s needed.”

Fili listened for a while silently and considered his cousin’s words. He himself had not been raised with such blind faith in the Valar; his mother had never been able to trust anyone so deeply in his memory. There was something comforting, though, in the simple steadiness of Oin’s voice, his quiet strength. And he _had_ been raised to appreciate someone who paid such careful attention to his surroundings.

“Is that all, though?” he asked shrewdly, and Oin chuckled.

“Might be I listen to a fair bit of gossip. Keep an eye on things, like. Amazing what people can give away without even knowing about it. So if you’re moving about in ways I wouldn’t like I’ll hear about it!”

Fili laughed and pushed away from the counter just as Gimli returned.

“There you are, lad!” Oin said. “See your cousin home, will you?”

With a grin, Gimli offered his arm as if to an invalid. Fili scowled and shoved him away--and then, realizing that Gimli couldn’t retaliate without fear of worrying his wound, shoved him again and tugged roughly at his braid for good measure. Gimli glared and played the only card left to him.

“You were hunting with Dwalin--”

“ _Shut it_.”

“— _and_ Bifur! Who’ve probably gone boar hunting a thousand times between them and you _still_ managed to get gored. Your mother is going to kill you.”

Fili groaned, because he couldn’t deny that Gimli was entirely right. His mother was going to wait until he was healed, and then she was going to kill him. Not that he would admit it; he punched his cousin’s shoulder again and they bickered comfortably until they reached Fili’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aburâlinh - Grower-lady, the name I've given to Yavanna, wife of Aule and Vala of growing things  
> Baghudâl - wind-blower, the name I've picked for Manwe, the king of the Vala who controls the winds
> 
> Tolkien doesn't reference the dwarves worshiping any Vala except Aule, but I figured they would at least be aware of them (for their connection to Mahal if nothing else), and in the Behind the Scenes footage, John Callen mentioned that Oin was especially connected to the earth, so that's why I gave him that little speech.


End file.
